Replica Magazine Issue III by Bob Bean

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Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this magazine are those of the contributors and are not necessarily shared by Replica Magazine or Global Tat Productions. No responsibility is assumed by Replica Magazine or Global Tat Productions for damage or offense caused by any of the content contained in the material herein.

REPLICA MAGAZINE Issue III Nudity

Welcome to Replica Replica Magazine Global Tat Productions www.replicamag.co.uk Chief Custodian Thomas Foxley thebrains@replicamag.co.uk Editor Rosie Allen-Jones editor@replicamag.co.uk Music Editor Charlie Gilmour musiceditor@replicamag.co.uk Uncle Wetlegs Himself agony@replicamag.co.uk Illustrations Anna Chilton doodles@replicamag.co.uk This magazine is a compilation of articles, artwork, photos and other bits and pieces sent in by the public. To contribute: contributions@replicamag.co.uk Word limit 800 words.

Editor’s Note Nakedness can be used as a tool to impress, shock, anger, attract or protest. I know this because Lady Godiva knew this. Lady G (1040-1080) was married to the Earl of Mercia. Having repeatedly appealed to her husband to reduce the taxes on his tenants she struck a deal with him. If she would ride through the town completely naked he would grant her wish. So she did. On horseback. Now the legend of Lady Godiva has become the name of a psychological syndrome. Sufferers feel an overwhelming need to flash their ‘private parts’ at privileged passers-by. I protest; why should it be recognised as an illness.? If baboons can do it, why cant we?

Cover by Da vi d Brookes Left: Ri chard Mills www.freewebs.com/rmillustrations/apps/photos/

III NEXT ISSUE’S THEME: TROUBLE-MAKING

Table of Contents (most, anyway) Human Rights: the Naked Truth By Nikol Danielle Gow Nikol examines the rights on nudists

Ageist, moi? by Amy Tipper Amy hates old people

Peter’s Window by Amelia Grape Short story about a young boy and a secret window

VIII

Cock-Out Cop-Out by Charlie Coffey Charlie is scared of getting his cock out in public

Global Gathering Competition Entries from last issue’s competition

XII

Mind Games by Ken Dogg Ken can’t pull

XIV

My Real Name by Dusty Gilbert Dusty talks about being called Dusty

XVI

Swearing is Good, if You Don’t Think So You Can Fuck Off by Tom Hornbrook XVIII Does nothing that it promises

UNLEASH MAYHEM ARTICLES AND ARTWORK TO MATCH The above photo depicts a man holding a spray paint can. We are by no means encouraging criminal damage, but if you really can’t control the urge then the Replica logo looks particularly good when it’s 40ft high. The Houses of Parliament might make a suitable canvas.

Beef Steak and Liberty by Sam Muston Sam argues that you can choose to be fat if you want

XXII

Replica Gallery The finest art and photography from around the country

XXIV

Fakedness by Charlotte Johansan The world is turning plastic

XXXVIII

Broken Spirits and Broken Promises at Beach Break Live by Will Purchase Will gets done at a rubbish festival

XXXXII

Dressing Up Mommy for Pre-School by Chris Cander Chris gets some fashion tips from a toddler

XXXXVI

III NEXT ISSUE’S THEME: TROUBLE-MAKING

Table of Contents (most, anyway) Human Rights: the Naked Truth By Nikol Danielle Gow Nikol examines the rights on nudists

Ageist, moi? by Amy Tipper Amy hates old people

Peter’s Window by Amelia Grape Short story about a young boy and a secret window

VIII

Cock-Out Cop-Out by Charlie Coffey Charlie is scared of getting his cock out in public

Global Gathering Competition Entries from last issue’s competition

XII

Mind Games by Ken Dogg Ken can’t pull

XIV

My Real Name by Dusty Gilbert Dusty talks about being called Dusty

XVI

Swearing is Good, if You Don’t Think So You Can Fuck Off by Tom Hornbrook XVIII Does nothing that it promises

Beef Steak and Liberty by Sam Muston Sam argues that you can choose to be fat if you want

XXII

Replica Gallery The finest art and photography from around the country

XXIV

Fakedness by Charlotte Johansan The world is turning plastic

XXXVIII

Broken Spirits and Broken Promises at Beach Break Live by Will Purchase Will gets done at a rubbish festival

XXXXII

Dressing Up Mommy for Pre-School by Chris Cander Chris gets some fashion tips from a toddler

XXXXVI

Human Rights- the Naked Truth ‘Get your cock out of my face, that’s indecent exposure’ Nikol Danielle Gow explores the rights of naturalists Welcome to the generation of Human Rights. In just 60 years this infant idea has disseminated across the globe and set up camp on the political, economic and social agenda. Media coverage of the Beijing Olympics, riddled with talk of China’s human rights mischief, is telling of the weight that human rights carry in the world we live in today.

Meanwhile, across the Atlantic Ocean, a Spanish police officer was fined for “abusing his authority” when he stopped Jacint Ribax Deix from riding his bicycle through Barcelona in his birthday suit. Deix claimed that he was exercising his democratic right to be naked and the Spanish courts appear to have agreed with him.

Child labourers, refugees, sex slaves, no one can deny that such groups need human rights protection. However, I have come across a particularly peculiar human rights petition, that if accepted, could revolutionise the meaning of ‘human rights’ entirely. I’m talking about nudist rights – people fighting for their ‘human right’ to be naked.

Foldvary argues that nudity is a possibly offensive but harmless state of being. Since it is not an act but simply an absence of clothes, the naked should be protected by human rights standards such as freedom of expression, freedom of religion, freedom of association and private property rights.

In an essay entitled Attacks on the Nude, the Naked, the naturist Fred Foldvary describes naturists and nudists as a minority group that are being attacked without regard to civil liberties and constitutional rights.

What Foldvary is saying is that nudity is a harmless state of being just as being female in Afghanistan is, or being black in apartheid South Africa was. Taliban officials may be ‘offended’ by the female gender and racists may be ‘offended’ by the darker skin tone, but that does not justify the prejudices that they hold.

He describes how laws are being passed across the US prohibiting nudity, even in one’s own home. A man in Ohio was arrested because someone using binoculars across the street could see him nude inside his house. In Arkansas it is illegal to even advocate in favour of nudism. In Alabama and Florida bills have been proposed to award those who file complaints against nudists with a $40,000 reward.

The difference between a woman and a nudist, however, is that a woman can’t help being female whereas a nudist can just put their clothes back on. Then again, we live in an age where Michael Jackson turned white and a woman could turn male if she so wanted. Justifying nudist discrimination on the basis that the naked can just put their clothes back on is like justifying gender discrimination on

the grounds that a person could have SRS (Sex Reassignment Surgery). Perhaps that is a ridiculous argument, putting one’s clothes on is a lot simpler than SRS surgery. Such surgery alters a person’s natural formation/ design. It would be completely unethical to expect a person to change the body with which they were born to please antagonists.

confiscated on grounds of religion, race or sex, there would be outrage.

I hate to point this out, but we were born naked. Being naked is probably the most natural state of being. Wearing clothes technically constitutes an interference with our natural form.

To quote the words of the beloved Universal Declaration of Human Rights: “Everyone is entitled to all the rights and freedoms set forth in this Declaration, without distinction of any kind, such as race, colour, sex, language, religion… or other status.” Could “other status” be interpreted to include the naked?

Moving away from the nitty-gritty, there is something very unsettling about a US state government criminalising nudity to the extent that they would offer rewards for the ‘capture’ of naked people. It is equally disturbing that this month’s issue of Replica would be illegal in Arkansas because it “advocates in favour of nudism”. Whatever happened to freedom of expression? It is blatantly discriminatory that governments are using nudity as a pretext to seize attractive property from their rightful owners. According to Foldvary’s essay, a Los Angeles nudist resort and a Virginia nudist camp both fell upon such untimely ends. If property was

I have tried relentlessly to find a loophole in this claim to human rights protection, but have failed. It appears that the naked are just as entitled as any ethnic, religious, linguistic or other minority group on Earth.

Such an interpretation raises a multitude of questions about the boundaries (or lack of) to human rights claims. Human rights could potentially become the number one facilitator of all sorts of antisocial behaviour. Who knows? But for now it suffices for me to leave you with the words of F. H. Bradley –

“There are those who so dislike the nude that they find something indecent in the naked truth.”

CONGRATULATIONS NIKOL, YOU ARE THIS ISSUE’S PRIZE WINNER! YOU HAVE WON A RETURN TRAIN FARE TO BRIGHTON, WHERE THEY HAVE A LOVELY NUDIST BEACH. GET IN TOUCH.

confiscated on grounds of religion, race or sex, there would be outrage.

I hate to point this out, but we were born naked. Being naked is probably the most natural state of being. Wearing clothes technically constitutes an interference with our natural form.

“There are those who so dislike the nude that they find something indecent in the naked truth.”

CONGRATULATIONS NIKOL, YOU ARE THIS ISSUE’S PRIZE WINNER! YOU HAVE WON A RETURN TRAIN FARE TO BRIGHTON, WHERE THEY HAVE A LOVELY NUDIST BEACH. GET IN TOUCH.

VI Ageist, moi?

VII

Amy Tipper thinks old people should keep to themselves ‘When I am an old women, I shall wear purple.’ Reading Jenny Joseph’s lines in a GCSE textbook I was enthralled. How exciting to get old, become eccentric and confused without a care in the world. But there’s a problem. She missed out the lines: “When I am almost old, and mostly menopausal I shall become a complete pain, take folding chairs, picnic blankets and pita with hummus to Neil Young concerts and plant myself right at the front of the audience.” I was recently at the Hop Garden one-day festival in Kent to see Primal Scream. The aforementioned Neil Young was headlining. Of course there was a mixed age group; an artist that has managed to keep going over four decades has a fan base that stretches from the teen with piercings in the back of his neck to Mr. and Mrs. Brian in their ‘Health and Safety first’ Volvo. I expected it. What I didn’t expect, as Mr. and Mrs. Brian snuggled (or smug-led) into their waterproofs and contemplated smoking a cheeky joint, was their complete disregard for the unwritten festival rules. Never has a case for what the young can teach the old been so perceptibly apparent. My generation often plagues me; we appear to be far more violent with an apparently god-given right to ‘respect’ that few and far between actually deserve. But the majority, hailing from all the diversities of music genres, understands that the concert/gig/festival

they are attending is not taking place in their own living room. No matter how much acid they’ve consumed. Mr. and Mrs. Brian might as well have brought the kitchen sink. Disposable cameras were at the ready, along with Robinson’s juice in a denture-chewed plastic thermos and pursed lips, the result of having to stand too long in the bar queue only to discover the abysmal prices. The rest of us will put up with beer costing £3.50, the loos being a horribly disarming experience, the mud, the rain and the tedious Camden Passage merchandise. It is accepted, and expected. What is unacceptable, and what we won’t put up with, are umbrellas blocking the view in the middle of a set because Kent is experiencing a freak monsoon season. It is unacceptable for you to get there “nice and early” and sit through all the obscure bands just so you can plonk your folding chairs right next to Mr. and Mrs. Graham, the lovely couple who attend the same golfing society back home. And if the only person you’ve come to see is headlining, don’t yammer on about Felicity’s dyslexia throughout Primal Scream. That too, is unacceptable. But then there was Neil. Sixty-two and a sufferer throughout his lifetime of polio, diabetes and more recently a brain aneurysm - still rocking on through a two hour set. I’ve seen performers half his age utterly unable to muster anywhere near

the energy and enthusiasm of Neil and his cardigan wearing accomplices. Let alone the brilliance. I like to think that Neil Young spent the whole of his middle-aged years forgoing Clingfilm wrapped sandwiches and that his wife, Pegi much prefers a neat shot of

southern whisky than a tepid mug of tea. Do your ‘middle-aged’ years with flair and be honest – if you’d rather be curled up on the sofa with a hot toddy than watching ‘youths’ prance about a field then it is best for everyone that you stay at home.

VI Ageist, moi?

VII

Peter’s Window Amelia Grape It’s true, Peter was small... very small but he wasn’t going to let that stop him. Not this time. He rubbed the back of his neck where it had begun to ache and cursed himself for not wearing any socks. The long ladder stretched up the wall in front of him. On each rung he could make out an average of three and a half splinters. That was roughly ninety one splinters in total, forty five and a half splinters in each foot and he wasn’t sure he could take it. The fourteenth rung was split in the middle and would not be able to withstand any weight on it at all. Now considering his height, Peter would find it incredibly challenging to stretch out from the thirteenth to the fifteenth bar without slipping and ending up in an awful mess at the bottom. But this was all maths and for once, he reasoned, maths was not going to get him anywhere. The window at the top of the ladder had intrigued him for years. It too was small, a carefully estimated fifty centimetres by sixty five. Peter would definitely fit. Although the window could be seen from the outside of the house there was absolutely no evidence of it from within. No one else knew of it, at least no one Peter knew, for he had been sure to keep it very quiet. The ladder had always been there but had somehow managed to be incredibly inconspicuous. Not one

person in the family had ever mentioned it nor considered its purpose. Peter thought this a little strange but never subjected it to further enquiry as it suited him just fine. The window and the ladder were his and his alone. From where he stood he could just make out the pattern on the blind that hung in his window’s frame. Yellow ducks complete with little blue bonnets waddled around their cotton farm yard, intermittently pecking at little tufts of perfectly green grass. Peter thought of them as ferocious guard dogs in disguise, waiting to pounce on any uninvited explorer. What they were guarding remained to be discovered if only Peter could just muster the courage to climb up to them. He clasped a hand on either side of the looming ladder. The wood felt soft and unstable. As he pulled himself up he breathed in the damp smell of the wood. He felt like a trooper, he wasn’t even scared any more. With each step he felt a little bit more ambitious. The fourteenth rung posed no threat to this inexorable soldier. Suddenly he was at the top. He stretched out and as he felt the cold glass of the windowpane, he recalled the words of his mother. “Everything is going to be just fine”.

Photo by Christopher Buttigieg licensed under Creative Commons ShareAlike 2.0

XI Cock-Out Cop-Out Charlie Coffey

I was ten years old. Knee-high to a grasshopper would have been fine. Unfortunately it was more like head-high to something much worse, treading water in a sea of cock. The image has stayed with me to this day: The men's toilets, half-time at Old Trafford. It felt like I was part of the meat-packing scene in Rocky, rows and rows of dangling slabs of meat waiting in an orderly queue to be slapped around and given a good seeing to. Then it was my turn, holding what god gave me, head sandwiched between two schlongs acting as a phallic neck brace. Maybe this experience scarred me. It’s not that there’s anything that wrong with it, but given the choice I would rather not get my cock out in public. Does this make me a lesser man? It seems to me that the universal rule is that the more of a man you are, the more you enjoy getting your cock out. This was confirmed during a recent trip to Australia. They’re real men aren’t they, Aussies? I like to spend as little time in the toilet as possible, but no, this is where Aussie men bond. They become ever more masculine in the visual presence of cock. It’s like some sort of testosterone feeding frenzy. Less “Shielas” to ruin the ripping of the “Pom” over some obscure game of cricket I don’t remember, I suppose. I love Australia.

Background: Photo by PJM licensed under GNU Free Documentation License, Version 1.2

The gym changing room is another classic cock fest. It seems that the unwritten rule here is that the older, fatter, and more disgusting the man, the longer he spends in the nude. Maybe this is to get even with those who aren’t quite as

physically repulsive as himself. Maybe he feels that because he is so unattractive, he wants to punish others by drying his balls for ten minutes, or worse still by conveniently dropping something and bending down without the use of his knees, forever chiseling this harrowing image into the retina so you never forget his pain. The reason I personally don’t enjoy getting changed in my gym is because of the presence of Penis Pete, as I’ve named him. This slimy creature is there pretty much every single time I go. He’s one of those greasy Mediterranean types, you know, bald on top with a pony-tail. The thing is, I’ve never once seen him use any gym equipment. He eats there, he does his washing there, he hangs around (excuse the pun) in the changing rooms, shamelessly preying on younger men. He literally stares hungrily at your cock. Maybe he’s waiting for some kind of response. Maybe he’s some kind of Dr Doolittle, specialising in the trouser snake? Or maybe he’s just a proper fucking pervert. Now, I don’t mind sharing the changing room with gay men, it’s unavoidable, but I won’t be part of Penis Pete’s £40 a month cockathon. It’s just wrong. So, have I been irreparably damaged by such bone-chilling experiences at a tender age? Am I, at 24, doomed to a life in which I only enjoy sharing my manhood with my significant other? Or will I learn to love whacking my lovemeat out in the company of other men? Will I ever be one of those butter-fingered fat old guys with bad knees in the changing room? One can but dream. Who knows what the future holds.

XI Cock-Out Cop-Out Charlie Coffey

Background: Photo by PJM licensed under GNU Free Documentation License, Version 1.2

XIV Mind Games

“I just had to get this off my chest”- Ken Dog “Treat them mean, keep them keen”. “Everyone loves a bastard”. “Nice guys finish last”. Now, before you read this and start thinking ‘ah here we go, some goon on a moan about not being able to get any birds’, that is not what this is about. I’m currently seeing a great girl who I know is into me but there are non -stop mind games going on that I just can’t get my head around! I’m not talking about fun Derren Brown type games where I make you think my arsehole is actually a lolly, or make you think, ‘Yes, robbing that bank is a splendid idea’, it’s more the whole, you like someone then pretend you don’t type of game. That is exactly what I’m having to do and frankly, it’s rubbish.

Some people thrive on ‘The Game’. Some people revel in the chase, the hunt, the uncertainty. It is a lot of fun if you’re just on a night out but when it’s a couple of months down the line it starts to get a little tedious. Why is it that when you get on really well with someone and like each other you can’t just say you do without them thinking you are going to whack them in a chastity belt and start answering their phone calls? This usually occurs during the earlier stages of a relationship which is where I am. Although we’re not seeing other people and go to dinner (and are basically going out), the official party line is we’re “seeing” each other, which apparently is much better than the term

Above: illustration by Anna Chilton www.annachilton.com

(gasp), “girlfriend”. As far as I see it, you’re either just friends, fuck buddies or boyfriend and girlfriend. There’s no in between bit where you’re not going out but not seeing anyone else. It’s a joy to explain to people what my situation is; the conversation goes a little something like this:

shake their hand with a chainsaw? Is it that bad to have someone you like, like you back? I know when you first start seeing someone you don’t just wade in with marriage proposals and children’s names . Obviously play it slightly cool to start with but once you’re past the initial stages why does it continue?

Them: “So, is this your girlfriend then?” Me: “Um... well yeah, no, yeah, kind of” Them: (Bewildered look of confusion followed by) “It’s not a hard question…” Me: “Well we’re seeing each other” Them: “Ah right so you still see other people?” Me: “No” Them: “So you’re going out?” Me: “No” Them: “Right, I don’t really understand and I’m getting bored of this now” Me: “I feel exactly the same.” Them: (look at me like I’m utterly insane) Me: “I’m just off to bang my head against the wall, ok?”

The most infuriating thing is that the few times I have done the ‘treat them mean thing’ it actually worked, which is highly irritating as it’s fake. It’s an act put on which is just not you (well, just not me at least). You can’t treat them like shit forever as I’m pretty sure that will result in you ending up with what you deserve, nothing. When do the mind games stop and when can you relax and start being yourself?

Now for the main point of this- why is it that just hinting that you may moderately like someone makes them treat you like a paedophile with leprosy who’s trying to

So if a half-cut fella comes up to you one night, calls you a slag then says you’ve got no chance with him, don’t get upset- it means I really like you…!

I agree everyone wants what they can’t have, but you can’t dump someone with the theory that they’ll come running back because they’ve realised their life without you is suddenly going to be terrible. They are not necessarily going to come singing outside your window on the stroke of midnight begging for you to give them another chance. Having read this back maybe I’m just pranging out for no reason, maybe me and the girl are just not meant to be, or maybe this is just the way it is, but it is all very confusing. I might just throw myself into this whole treat them mean thing and see where it gets me....

XIV Mind Games

Above: illustration by Anna Chilton www.annachilton.com

Now for the main point of this- why is it that just hinting that you may moderately like someone makes them treat you like a paedophile with leprosy who’s trying to

So if a half-cut fella comes up to you one night, calls you a slag then says you’ve got no chance with him, don’t get upset- it means I really like you…!

XII

XIII

Gavin and the Hole

Oxygen Festival 2005

Matthew Wainhouse

Tom O’Neill

Exit festival, Serbia. 4.30 a.m. The Happy Novi Sad stage. By this time, the whole crew is wrecked: all jabbering crap and running around like 5 year olds on a sugar high. The girls, a wee bit tired took a rest on the hill side overlooking the dance floor while the boys chucked beer over one another and danced to hardcore. I joined the girls. While sat I peered to the left and found a breeze block perched lonely on the hill side. “Gav,” I shouted, “Lets investigate.” Pulling the brick aside we discovered a hole. A big hole. The sort of hole health and safety in the UK would have erected a 40ft fence around. We dropped a cup in to watch it fade to black. No end. Gav got in and quickly found himself falling to the abyss. No bottom. We laughed as Gav’s face turned from hysteric laughter to hysteric fear. The others oblivious to his peril, I quickly realised Gav was in real trouble. “Help. Help Me.” I grabbed his arm and began to heave. “Tristan,” I yelled “Help.” Unfortunately, Tristan was too ‘wonky’ to be of any use. The girls finally caught on as Gav’s arms began to give way as his weight gradually pulled him further and further down. They ran for security. Security arrived promptly on the scene but stopped 2 metres in front of Gav. I figured they were looking how best to get him out. But no. No no. Getting down on one knee they pulled out their camera phones from their back pockets. “Help. Help Me”. After their souvenir shots they hauled Gav from the pit to safety. We laugh, but Gav is traumatised for life.

I look back on Oxygen today in a similar sort of way you that you recall playing some strangely erotic nakedgame with a cousin when you were seven. At the time I was going out with someone I now realise was a twat, let’s call her Judith. Now myself and Judith had been going out for around two years at this point and I had slowly been distilled from someone who loved breakbeat, techno and rave into a slightly pale boring bell-end who decided that the Kaiser Chiefs were 'OK really'. Raver to Rah-ver. It was at Oxygen that I had an epiphany which prevented my life from following a path to endless nights out in Clapham loudly discussing the rugby and complaining about the lack of 'real ale'. After being told that I couldn't watch The Prodigy, Judith and I were waiting outside the dance tent for some friends to appear. A man came exploding out of the tent running at full speed in the style of an ape. It was a sight to behold. 'Get on it you miserable fuckers!!!!!!' he screamed as he ran past us. 'What a horrible man’ Judith said. All I could think was that I had betrayed my people. The monkey man was me. I was the monkey man. I should have been there with him, sweating, gurning and taking whatever horrific cocktail of shit he was on. Needless to say, myself and Judith later broke up. The most wonderful irony was that it was because she had got off with someone else whilst on pills for the first time.

We at Replica are kind, generous folk. This is why in the last issue we offered our readers the chance to win weekend tickets to Global Gathering 2008. We were inundated with two articles and needed a plan to decide on a winner. In the end we were lazy, so we took both articles and

flipped a coin. It came in Tom O’Neill. Hmmm, make it best out of three. Again. Tom’s piece won it with two heads in a row. Congratulations Tom, you win. BOB BEAN REVIEWS THIS YEAR’S GLOBAL GATHERING ON PAGE XX

XII

XIII

Gavin and the Hole

Oxygen Festival 2005

Matthew Wainhouse

Tom O’Neill

XVI My Real Name Dusty Gilbert The idea of a ‘real name’ is funny considering it’s given in the first place. But, it’s true, my ‘real name’ is Dusty. “So, are you related to the boxer?” “Were your parents hippies?” “Did your parents think you were a boy?” That’s a negative (on all three). I have never even seen a boxing match, my parents were more of the rock and roll type and my mom had an ultrasound. Anyway, doesn’t anyone remember Dusty Springfield? Elementary school brought such beautiful nicknames as ‘Dust Pan’, ‘Dust Mop’ and the still popular ‘Dust Buster ’ (which I have now grown to cherish) Truth-betold, during the early years, all I wanted

was a ‘normal’ name. Actually, I remember being adamant on making the change to ‘Jessica’ throughout 6th grade. Well, thank god my mom was not very motivated to start lethargic legal processes… because, now, I could not imagine being anything else, but Dusty. Aside from the obvious advantages of being memorable, not easily confused with others and an impressive aptitude for Google search ability, I like it most because it’s me. So, I guess I got lucky because my ‘given’ name was actually my ‘real’ name all along. I guess it just took a while to figure it out. Oh, I forgot the best part… my middle name is Love.

Swearing is good, if you don’t think so you can fuck off. Tom Hornbrook talks about something else completely I got the idea for this article a couple of hours ago when I thought of the title. “Catchy!” I thought. “Have I stolen that from somewhere or did I think of that myself?” Either way I’m planting my flag into it and calling it my own. Off to a good start. What next? Well with a title like that I thought the rest Would just write itself. So that’s what I’m doing. I haven’t got a plan and I don’t know what I’m going to write about yet, but here goes. A rant. With a title like that I must rant about something. Oh dear, it just struck my mind that with this title I could go off on one about how our verbal freedoms are being choked by political correctness. But fuck that. No one wants to hear any more rants about PC. The problem is that it’s just so God damn politically correct these days to rant about ‘PC gone mad.’ Luckily I have just about managed to catch myself before falling off of the tired rants shelf into the bin of shitty rants (Oh, metaphors, you’ll help m e through this article so that the poor readers come out thinking that I enlightened, provoked thought and generally

entertained. Because I have just decided that those are its goals). I was going to write, not an article, but a flow chart quiz type thing the kind that you get in girls’ magazines proclaiming to infer which kind of spice girl or ice cream you are. A series of ‘yes’ or ‘no’ questions leads you to your fate. Since the theme this month is nudity, I was going to offer you different paths of questions ending in the type of nude you are; vain, reclusive, brazen, shameless etc... Not only would the quiz have made it into this issue (apparently there‘s now competition for space), people would have actually read it too. I had an idea that was actually worth doing. I even got started on it. It was a winning formula because it had interaction, discovery and, above all, hardly any commitment for the reader. But with an article like this one, dear reader, you have to commit your time and energy. And to begin with you probably don’t know if you’ll get anything out of it. So if you’ve read this far then you’re doing well. I haven’t really offered you any insight into

anything (yet). Most will have skimmed past, glancing at the title before moving on. Of those that did commit to this article, many will have dropped off after the first paragraph. Once you get past that first paragraph however, there’s much less chance of escape. I have you now whether you like it or not. Just to prove that point further: Go on, I dare you, stop reading and turn over. True, I probably did lose a few more readers by writing that. But they’re the stubborn ones determined to prove a point. They’re probably smiling to themselves over the next page now thinking how cool they are. But YOU, the crème de la crème of Replica’s readership are with me still. Quite frankly, I’m flattered because, lets face it; I have no idea what I’m doing. Time for another metaphor, don’t you think, before this article becomes a stale loaf of bread that’s good for nothing but croutons in a second-rate Caesar salad? A good article starts with a hardhitting intro, swings out to the finer points of interest before bringing it home full-circle. If that is true then where the hell am I on the circle? I’m hoping that I hit you hard with the intro, I’ve swung out to a few finer points and now I’m heading back home.

Unfortunately, having re-read my intro, home seems to be a place lacking in any idea or substance. It’s a heat haze on the distant tarmac behind me. This is no place I should like to return to. So please be a forgiving reader and allow me to ebb from convention, because, after all, that is the point of this magazine. Therefore I won’t be talking about swearing. But if that’s what you were thirsty for when you read my catchy title then this next sentence is for you: If you use the bastards sparingly and wisely, swear words are very fucking useful linguistic bitches. So there you go. I guess it turns out my article was about articles. Not surprising really. I’ve decided to keep it short because you probably have better things to do. Well, the truth is I’ve ran out of ideas. To sum up then: rope your reader in with a catchy title. Make the first paragraph good. Don’t worry about the others - they’ll have already committed too much time to make it worthwhile giving up. Don’t worry about a plan either. And if you’re going to rant about something please, please try to make it about something most people like. That way it’s more likely to be original. Oh, and remember to ask the reader lots of leading questions. And the last sentence? Keep it short.

XXI My Naked Self Charlotte Johansen

4th SEPTEMBER - 5th OCTOBER

NETTIE HORN 25B Vyner Street| London | E2 9DG 0208 980 1568 w ww.nettiehorn.com

My naked self Knobbly knees and full thighs, Push my finger to skin, it bruises and I Let go and wait for the colour to drain. My hip, The bone sticks out and dips I think of you And the first time you touched My naked self What must you have thought, if you thought at all? The rush of excitement, as your hands fell To the small of my back, and back To these hips, Lips touching lips, hearts beating quick, Thrills chase through my core, straight up to my teeth; And you hard on top of me; Visceral pleasure mixed with a fear that says But I don’t want a baby, or a disease Though here and now you’re all I need, and I’m sorry (I never meant to be a tease) My stomach rises and falls as I breathe, Inhale, Exhale My naked self Goosebumps overwhelm spindly arms, Body autonomy As pale flesh prickles alarm, defends against cold Drum fingers on table, think One day they’ll look old, Like so many I’ve seen, like my piano teacher indeed Whose hands were thick fingered and purply green, And played with such skill, so beautifully. My naked self I sigh and tie my hair in a Knot at the top of my head. Head which is Skull, encasing Brain; which Can contemplate itself And it amazes me! Something I can never explain, though I try valiantly. My naked self Is a map, and a story; A diary to document every journey.

XXI My Naked Self Charlotte Johansen

4th SEPTEMBER - 5th OCTOBER

NETTIE HORN 25B Vyner Street| London | E2 9DG 0208 980 1568 w ww.nettiehorn.com

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XXIII Beef Steak and Liberty “How dare Mr. Lansley try to interfere with the size of my cheese cake.” Sam Muston tells us how great it is to be a big fat fatty.

Lying by a canal- drunk- I concluded that enough was quite probably enough, and that something must be done. Having lived high on the festival hog for the entire month of July - taking every opportunity to break the tedium of living in a house, as my mother puts it somewhat sardonically- I must confess that I had become fat, flabby and somewhat unfit. So, unencumbered by anything as wearisome as a job, I thought it a propitious act to join my local gym, and after an exhaustive search lasting half an hour, I settled on Green’s Health & Fitness Centre. Like all under-employed and understimulated people, I began to get up extremely early and thus found myself, on a tepid August morning, being ‘inducted’ into the ‘Green’s family’. It was a bewildering experience. The young, thrusting ‘inductress’, who we shall call Stacey - for that is her name- provided a whistle stop tour of the establishment. The first thing that struck me about Stacey was that she was quite possibly the most unpleasant person I have ever met. After only five minutes of acquaintanceship, and having relieved me of a not inconsiderable amount of cash, she proceeded to berate me about my ‘lamentable state of health’. Like a latter day Mussolini- but in Lycra- she insisted I was to stop the heavy drinking, cut down my salt intake and lower my blood pressure. ‘Woefully out of shape’ was her parting verdict. Now, of all these

things I was in no doubt. But to be quite frank I didn’t like the cut of her jib; for you see Stacey was afflicted with the worst of modern maladies- bossiness. Suddenly, I was questioning my decision to join a gym when, equally as suddenly, the question was answered for me, strangely, by a treadmill. As I climbed onto ‘the road to nowhere’ (my mother again) and set the speed to high and the gradient to low, I noticed a disconcerting sight. On what I can only think to call the dashboard, there lay a digital screen, which, as I huffed and puffed, started to talk at me. At first it was quite polite, asking me to enter my age and weight, in what I imagined was a servile tone. This, I now know, was to lure me into a false sense of security. Before long it was stridently telling me to push myself harder, to ‘choose fitness,

choose life’- as if running on the spot in a strip lit room was the acme of ‘living’. Quite honestly, I became rather annoyed with the insolent running machine. After all, of the both of us I was the only one who was sentient, surely I was better placed to impart bossily-expressed advice. Call me old-fashioned, or mad, but I don’t really like to be told what to do by nonsentient objects- be it a pebble, or a running machine. And neither for that matter by grey men in suits. Few come as grey as Andrew Lansley, the shadow Health Secretary, this man- whose achievements in public life are as small as his mind- recently gave a hectoring speech about the dangers of being a fatty. Nothing wrong there but he then went on to propose several bossy measures to combat this ‘scourge’ - much wrong here! The most pernicious suggestion in the

long list of hackneyed proposals was, I kid you not: “consultation with the food industry to reduce portion sizes.” How dare Mr. Lansley try to interfere with the size of my cheese cake. You really would be hard pressed not to hold his ideas as being beyond parody, and him below contempt. Why must we be harangued, preached at and patronised by cretins such as he, who couldn’t even blow their noses without their trousers falling down. Lansley may very well have been propelled into politics to ensure his children and his children’s children only have one helping of dessert, but I believe government should hold no role in such matters. Of course the public should, and must, be informed of dangers to their health, but ultimately it is my choice if I want to eat a four course breakfast with extra lard. The right and responsibilities of the individual should remain inviolate. A usurping state must be kept in abeyance. If not, then we lose what is most important - our freedom to choose for ourselves and live as we see fit. I intend to exercise my freedom of choice, to ignore Mr. Lansley entirely and instead heed the words of Julius Caesar. Like him I’m happy to have “men about me who are fat”. For it is better to be fat than to live in the world of Lansley, Stacey and that damn running machine.

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XXIII Beef Steak and Liberty “How dare Mr. Lansley try to interfere with the size of my cheese cake.” Sam Muston tells us how great it is to be a big fat fatty.

XXIII

REPLICA GALLERY Welcome art lovers and pretentious arseholes. This is the Replica Art Gallery.

Francesco Benenato ‘London Incubus’ “My latest work is based on the concept of ‘looking into people's subconscious’... The overall intention is to trigger the viewer's real state of mind in order to make him & her give up hiding themselves.” Eh? http://www.artreview.com/profile/Francesco19

XXIII

REPLICA GALLERY Welcome art lovers and pretentious arseholes. This is the Replica Art Gallery.

XXIV

Natalie McKenzie Part of a series of photos entitled ‘The Tempest’. Natalie’s work can be viewed and purchased on the Saatchi Gallery website, click here.

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Natalie McKenzie Part of a series of photos entitled ‘The Tempest’. Natalie’s work can be viewed and purchased on the Saatchi Gallery website, click here.

Yago Mateos ‘Waiting’ (below) and ‘The Screamdropsahadow’ 29 year old Spaniard Yago currently resides in Hackney, London. http://www.flickr.com/photos/79137651@N00/

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MUSIC

David Brookes David is a freelance photographer who lives in London. He is currently shooting photos for the new Bliss Home catalogue. http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=583372209&ref=ts

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MUSIC

David Brookes David is a freelance photographer who lives in London. He is currently shooting photos for the new Bliss Home catalogue. http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=583372209&ref=ts

FEDERICA PICARIELLO ‘Risunok 1’ “-II live in London -Photography Photography is my hobby -II don't have a website”

Amanda Moss â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Amy Red Braâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Amanda is an artist and director of Corsica Studios, a not-for-profit independent arts organisation in London. http://www.corsicastudios.com

Beth Hiley ‘Ballet Shoes’ (right) and ‘Me’ (below). Beth is a student photographer. Currently doing her A-Levels, she wishes to continue art and photography after she leaves collage. http://www.flickr.com/photos/hileb/

XXXVIII Fakedness

XXXIX

Charlotte Johansen fears the world is made of plastic I never thought I would find myself agreeing with Lorraine Kelly. But one cold and wet morning as I wrapped myself in a duvet, prepared to snivel my way through a day off work and switched on GMTV, it happened. She said something that struck me as fairly profound. Interviewing Jodie Marsh, Lorraine slipped in a comment along the lines of, “Your breasts look wonderful now that you’ve had them lifted. But I do worry as to whether young lads growing up these days will ever find out what real boobs look like!”I started thinking about this, it could well be true – or, if not true yet, then certainly it may be an apt assessment 50 years down the line. Will we know what real boobs look like in 2058? Will we know what real people look like, for that matter? Plastic surgery is not the exclusive playing field of the rich and famous anymore. Pretty much everybody knows someone that’s had something ‘done’, and how many inane real-life magazines have lurched out at you at the newsagents with headlines such as: ‘My boyfriend/mum/dog bought me a boob job for my birthday!’; ‘All I want for my birthday is a boob job like Mummy’; ‘Sarah shares boob job diary’; ‘I’m so happy now that I have breasts the size of melons that stop me doing anything productive!’ (Is it easier to spot a fake headline than a pair of fake breasts?). Of course, we’re not just talking about breasts: self ‘enhancement’ is rife in all

areas. Skin grafts, tummy tucks, Botox, new teeth, penis pumps, phalloplasty, hymen restoration. The list is gruesome and never-ending. Plastic surgery: simultaneously fooling, disappointing and oppressing one and all of us. We are all speedily heading down the, ‘let’s all look the same!’ highway, oblivious to the fact that beauty may be found not necessarily ‘within’, but at least within individuality. I guess it’s not surprising that we fall foul to this shallowness when the media takes actual, bona fide beyootiful people and tries to make them ‘even better ’. You can’t blame your average Joe Blogs for feeling inadequate if that’s the message constantly drummed home. Only recently, the crooked smile of a little Chinese girl meant she could not take credit for her singing talent, because, well, how dare she look like a real person. Just how callously superficial is a society, when it can bump off a five year old for a prettier model? And what about newspapers and magazines? Take, for example, the ‘whitening’ of Beyonce. Aside from the horrific racist connotations of this, the question begs to be asked: does she really need any ‘improvement’ at all? Christ, if she’s not good enough the rest of us may as well jump off the nearest skyscraper. Or the lads’ mags that add a bit more breast, or take a few inches off the waistlines women, who they presumably find attractive anyway, to make them look that little bit more unrealistic.

What impact does this have on your average person? Anorexia, bulimia, botch boob jobs, “Let’s leave the light off during sex because I haven’t mutilated my body to the degree you’d like”. Either way, we’re not seeing real people. One look at Men’s Health and how many men feel secure with themselves? Once the initial sneering has died down, does that little voice start opining ‘maybe I could do with a protein shake? Well at least my penis isn’t too small….is it?!’ One of the reasons aesthetically beautiful people are so captivating is that they are so rare – that kind of Brangelina symmetry is a blessing apportioned to a minority of the population. The more common it becomes, the more it loses its allure. If, suddenly we lived in a world where every single person looked as if they’d stepped out of Vogue, wouldn’t we become bored with this whole beauty thing? Maybe we wouldn’t. Maybe, once every single one of us looked fantastic we’d stop worrying about what we look like and get on with things like, oh I don’t know, living our lives, doing something useful? But, unfortunately, a far more likely scenario is that instead of helping others, becoming prime ministers or creating masterpieces, we as a species would just take this obsession to the absolute extreme. I sometimes have nightmares that this extreme involves the whole of mankind, nipped and tucked 100 fold, until we are luminous orange, pumped up and facially

paralysed. Floating around numbly like creepy over-sexed, emotionallyunderdeveloped morons until we all spontaneously combust thereby heralding the extinction of the human. It’s not very cool to actually care about people these days, but what the hell I’m going to do it anyway. I’m not saying, let yourself get really fat, never wash and don’t even bother looking in a mirror. But I am saying, let’s start actually valuing ourselves to the point where we say, ‘yeah this is me. Naked. Deal with it! I’m real! I’m here! I’m alive!’ Let’s slow down this obsession with fakedness. Then maybe 2058 won’t be such a terrifying place after all.

XXXVIII Fakedness

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XXXXI

REMEMBER ME MATTHEW WAINHOUSE 1985 - ? Graduation has brought with it a new sense of impending maturity. Not the optimistic ‘start uni, no parents’ kind of maturity. But a deeper, darker, more destitute kind that forces you to take a bewildering glance into the blank canvas of your future. At least this is how I feel. The future, or rather what I will make of my future, scares me. A blank canvas is fine if you know you want to be an artist but us lonely souls without direction are a little cakhanded when painting our prospects. So recently I’ve been thinking about pushing the painting aside and going straight for the finished piece. By this I mean my legacy. My figuring is this: by looking at how I want to be remembered once I’m pushing daisies, I can retrace the hypothetical steps back through my life that lead me to the ‘me’ I want remembered. Matt the academic who got a 2:1 at uni; or Matt the benevolent who gave £5 pounds a month to Shelter. No. I want bigger. I want full glory. The guy who sorted world peace perhaps? Yet becoming this archetype-me sounds like hard work and frankly I’m too apathetic to chase my dreams with any real determination. So it looks like I’m destined to fade into mediocrity with the other six billion. And besides, leaving your mark on history is a tricky business, since history has a habit of painting a biased picture. The country’s ‘greatest

Briton’, Winston Churchill, poses a good example, remembered as the valiant commander that lead the country to victory over the Axis Powers. Yet history seems to have almost forgotten the cruel and callous man that gave the go-ahead to the first systemic bombing of civilians in Iraq when “uncivilised tribes” were slow paying tax to the Empire. And, thanks to Shakespeare, Macbeth and his Lady are no longer seen as the benevolent rulers that built schools and hospitals but as megalomaniac murderers. Legacies can deviate from complete truth. But then I suppose that’s just their nature: remembering either the good bits or the bad. Rarely, it seems, both. So if I’ve got to choose, I’m going for good. The best way to do this (I reckon) is too cast off my initial dreams of grandeur and ask myself a different question. “Who do I want to be remembered by?” The answer is those that have touched my life most intimately. The family and friends who have shaped my life and those I have helped to shape. Looking back at that canvas, I’ll soon have to start painting. When I do though, I feel the finished piece will eventually turn out OK and, with a bit of luck, leave a lasting impression that will inspire a few fellow painters closest to my canvas.

Olympic Medal Table Tom O’Neill With the wonderful PR stunt that was the Beijing Olympics now a distant two week memory, I stand up and salute the great nations of North Korea and the Bahamas for their spectacular showing at this years games. These are my own (and obviously more accurate) medal tables, based on population and GDP. Honorable mention to Afghanistan for their one bronze medal in Taekwondo, an extraordinary feat considering their country is currently being ravaged by our own great army. Also to South Africa for their one silver medal in long jump, a laughably pathetic effort from a country which prides itself on its sporting prowess. Slightly irritatingly the Aussies still do quite well… the bastards. Top Ten Countries by GDP to Medal Ratio (Billions of Dollars per Medal)

Top Ten Countries by Population to Medal Ratio

North Korea

0.36

Bahamas

307,451

Jamaica

0.53

Jamaica

311,592

Zimbabwe

0.85

Slovenia

401,542

Armenia

1.28

New Zealand 463,717

Georgia

1.29

Australia

502,459

Tajikistan

1.40

Armenia

593,717

Kyrgyzstan

1.41

Belarus

645,717

Mongolia

1.57

Estonia

653,803

Togo

2.21

Norway

663,499

Belarus

2.46

Lithuania

713,041

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Top Ten Countries by Population to Medal Ratio

North Korea

0.36

Bahamas

307,451

Jamaica

0.53

Jamaica

311,592

Zimbabwe

0.85

Slovenia

401,542

Armenia

1.28

New Zealand 463,717

Georgia

1.29

Australia

502,459

Tajikistan

1.40

Armenia

593,717

Kyrgyzstan

1.41

Belarus

645,717

Mongolia

1.57

Estonia

653,803

Togo

2.21

Norway

663,499

Belarus

2.46

Lithuania

713,041

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XXXXIII fence which encircled the ‘compound’ of the festival itself. Each night campers had to be back in the ‘compound’ by 9pm and were not allowed out until the next morning. A bizarre mix of an open and a closed festival was made even more idea was like taking a radio to the beach, complicated by those ticket holders who you didn’t really care what the music was weren’t living on sight and so had to be but it would be nice to have some… regulated with an ever changing and maybe a song you know will come on. increasingly confusing system of lists, cut Music. Tick. wrist bands, new wrist bands, student cards, passwords, radio chatter, secret So it certainly was not the acts that handshakes, Morse code, induction attracted the revellers. Perhaps the ceremonies, brandings and full on scenery and general ambience where going promises to security guards that you to win the day for Beach Break. The ‘genuinely were here last surrounding countryside is undeniably night…mate…seriously’. The security was, beautiful, as is Polzeath beach. all in all, an absolute shambles and frustrating to the nth degree. During the day access to the beach was, I’d imagine, a great asset to the campers, Once inside the festival, the promise of helping to wash clean those groggy little ‘student friendly’ prices on local ciders and heads with fresh air, cold sea and Cornish beers was getting me excited but not half pasties. And well done to Beach Break. The as excited as the promise of ‘loads of local area was lovely. Unfortunately during wonderful and delicious food at reasonable the nightly festivities the areas beauty was prices’. I was starving. A quick circuit of the obscured by a rather ugly and rather tall ‘intimate’ sight left me feeling nervous. I

Broken Spirits and Broken Promises at Beach Break Live William Purchase On first hearing of Beach Break Live I thought: what a good idea. A small and ‘intimate’ festival near the lovely beach of Polzeath, with a rather vague but seemingly well intended ‘eco’ theme, targeted at students, what could go wrong? Turns out, fucking loads. The line up seemed like it had been chosen out of a hat. For such a small festival I would have hoped for some cohesive idea rather than such a smattering of acts. The various bands and DJs certainly covered a vast area of genres but it felt more like an exercise in ticking boxes rather than providing a musical experience with any kind of depth. The festival seemed to have been based on a communal beach holiday with music on the periphery. I suppose the

must have missed something. Corn on the cob was not going to fill the gaping hole in my rumbling tummy and my only other options must have been directed at the more affluent festival goer (an £8.50 Burrito is no friend of mine). I had no choice, 5 donuts for £2 and an oh so bitter sweet start to what turned out to be a very average week. I was disappointed to find out the main stage closed at 11.30 every night, that everyone was charged for a parking space, the ‘secret’ garden was made up of two cardboard flowers (one by the end of the first night) and a fire pit with freezing punters huddling around like painted tramps burning plastic bottles. None of the bar staff knew how to change a lager barrel and that the only kind of curry they served was fish. Overall the festival was poorly organised, the music was mediocre and there were enough hidden charges to warrant serious irritation. Perhaps there is a niche market for this kind of all rounder festival but I recommend you ponder it carefully before turning up.

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XXXXIV Global Gathering 2008 “What a load of bollocks”- Bob Bean

To find out who is on where and when you have to part with £7 for a guide. Then you soon realise that ignorance was better. There is absolutely no variety. Not enough effort was put in to the lineup to make it interesting. Dance music is an incredibly diverse genre and more could have been done to broaden the spectrum.

Having been so negative I must point out that I did have a lot of fun. Most of it was spent in the sunshine with good company, warm cider and bad food. The fairground rides, overpriced though they were, were genuinely a nice touch. Getting those that were high just a little bit higher. By ….far the most spectacular sight to be seen ….during the short get-away was the Red Arrows. And you don’t need drugs to ………appreciate tight synchronised flight. …………Maybe I’m just being a grumpy snob. ……….. …..Maybe I’m just rubbish and I totally ………….missed the point. Or maybe I wasn’t on enough ecstasy. Next year however I would recommend that you save your £115 and instead stock up on cocaine, MDMA and ketamine, sit in the back of your mate’s Nova and rave to Armin-Van-Bollocks at home.

RUBBISH

1,000,000

Glastonbury is run by a crazy farmer who only just breaks even on the whole event. Global Gathering is a shameless money making exercise. The amount of prom otion in association with the festival is brazen. I think the TV coverage sums up the whole vibe. Overstated stats and wide-angle lenses. Distortion and exaggeration. What a load of hype. Unfortunately for the or ganisers advertising and publicity are not what make a first-class festival. Airing the highlights a week or so after the event was a clever marketing ruse. Disguise the advert as a review, that way they’ll never spot it. It just doesn’t wash. And anyway, no one was there long enough to get dirty. What sort of festival lasts for only two days? Where the first night finishes at 2am? One and a half nights, for £115?

The nasty thieving crowd only detracted from the lack of overall quality further. I got the impression that they were not interested in good music at all, they just wanted to steal my girlfriend’s handbag and ingest a lot o f chemicals.

500,000

Everyone that I’ve spoken to who was there has said that it was distinctly below average. But you wouldn’t guess that from the press. Were we all missing something?

Egotist Mob y, who was really rather average, was the musical highlight. The rest was somewhat disappointing. The sound system in the my most eagerly anticipated arena sounded like the speakers were wrapped in cling-film. Mu ffled drum and hazy bass. Conversation, even right at the front, posed n o challenge. It would have sounded vastly better through the stereo in my car.

I have just watched the coverage on Channel 4 and my God, it really looked amazing. What a brilliant time was had by all. An authentic assembly for dance music enthusiasts. I’m afraid to say however, that when e xperienced first hand, it wasn’t quite such an exhilarating affair.

2005

2006

2007

2008

XXXXIV Global Gathering 2008 “What a load of bollocks”- Bob Bean

RUBBISH

1,000,000

500,000

Everyone that I’ve spoken to who was there has said that it was distinctly below average. But you wouldn’t guess that from the press. Were we all missing something?

2005

2006

2007

2008

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XXXXVII

Dressing up Mommy for Pre-School Chris Cander Not long ago, my four year old daughter became my personal stylist. I didn’t solicit this appointment; I didn’t even know I was in need of one. In this petite fashionistas mind, however, I most certainly do.

“But, honey, I’m going to exercise like I always do and that wouldn’t be an appropriate outfit,” I reason.

In my own defense, let me point out that while I wear a lot of hats throughout each day, none of them require matching shoes. Like many moms, my days are spent driving, scrubbing, tidying, grocery shopping, and cooking. I also happen to be nursing my 6-month-old son who tends to leak from multiple orifices, much of which winds up on my clothing. To top it off, I start each day with a muchneeded hour for myself at the gym where I wear a pair of capri-length sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt that usually announces where I vacationed back in my pre-kid days. Even once sweat-soaked this outfit is the most comfortable and practical in which to do all the other things on my endless list. But my daughter disagrees.

Fabulous is her favorite word. I sigh. It’s the same conversation every morning.

“Mom, today you should wear your red boots, dark jeans, and your red leather jacket.” She tells me, as she considers my closet. Never mind that it’s summer in Houston and I won’t even wear a leather watchband, much less a jacket. “OK, then how about your white pants, your orange-and-white shirt, and a pair of clicks?” “Clicks” is what she calls highheels, because of the sound they make on the hardwoods.

“Why? It would be pretty. You would look fabulous.”

It’s not about car-pool competition. It’s as pure as her favorite cotton skirt: if you have pretty things, you should wear them. My daughter loves to dress up, regardless of her agenda. Unless she was switched at birth, I somehow gave birth to a princess. She’ll wear a tiara to ball practice. Mary Janes to the playground. She insists on skirts and dresses most of the time and will often add a magic wand or string of beads to complete her look. Although she does get positive feedback for her femininity, I really think she wears what she does because it makes her feel good. She likes the way skirts swish and the embellishments on her blouses. A

new pair of shoes to her is better than pizza or cupcakes. I must admit that in the four years since becoming a mother, my sense of style has begun to slide. I’ve always been a low-maintenance type, but one who could get dolled up and turn quite a few heads, thank you! And I enjoyed it. I looked forward to selecting my outfit and applying makeup, straightening the wave

out of my hair and transferring my necessary objects into a matching handbag. But that was when I was responsible only for myself, and during a time when I felt a little more motivated to manicure my appearance. Whether to stand out or blend in, I could put together a truly chic look, complete with accessories. Once upon a time, I wouldn’t even go out of the house without matching bra and panties. Now that I’m comfortably settled into my eight-year marriage, and know that my husband truly adores me whether I’m snappy or sloppy, it’s pretty easy to justify my infant-friendly, wash-ngo look. Maybe practicality is just an excuse. Perhaps I’ve actually crept across the line into the state from which few moms can be extradited, that of ‘letting yourself go’. At what point did being freshly showered and pulling my wet hair back into a ponytail pass for being ‘dressed’? Since when did the contentment at not having to launder my nice clothes surpass the pleasure of wearing them? The afternoon of the suggestion of the red boots, I was a few minutes late picking up my daughter from school. But it was worth it. I emerged from my car as though arriving at an awards event. An imaginary red carpet unrolled itself before me, stopping just where she stood waiting. Her squeal was pure thrill:

“Mommy, you wore a dress! You look so beautiful!” She clapped as I did an impromptu twirl. “And makeup!” she said. Then abruptly serious, “Wait a minute. Where are we going?” “Nowhere. Home.” I said, smiling. What I didn’t say, because she wouldn’t quite understand, is that I decided that there was no point of letting pretty things languish in my closet just so I don’t have to clean them. That a few extra minutes can yield miracles. That just because I feel ratty sometimes doesn’t mean I have to look it. That she was worth the effort. That I was worth it. And although I haven’t sworn off wearing sweaty gym clothes, and can still be counted on to show up for a girls’ lunch merely clean, I have begun to dress up more often. It feels good to be girly instead of grubby. And even though I don’t want her to grow up thinking that the wardrobe makes the woman, I love it when my little girl says, “Mommy, you look fabulous.”

XXXXVI

XXXXVII

“But, honey, I’m going to exercise like I always do and that wouldn’t be an appropriate outfit,” I reason.

Fabulous is her favorite word. I sigh. It’s the same conversation every morning.

“Why? It would be pretty. You would look fabulous.”

XXXXVIII

XXXXIX The 21st Century’s Most Ridiculous Daydream: Biodiesel Tom Collins

Biodiesel, in theory, is a sustainable, green substitute for normal petroleum. It is fuel derived from crops- fuel that we can grow ourselves. When reserves of crude oil run out, biofuel will offer a solution to the ensuing energy crisis. The whole concept is, however, hopelessly flawed. Biofuel- vegetable oil that has undergone a process known as transesterification, comes from oily plants. Soy beans, palm, oilseed rape and sugar cane are examples of crops used in the biofuel industry. You can run a car with a normal diesel engine on oil from a chip pan, so it is not a big step to employ vegetable oil as fuel. Using biofuels on a commercial scale to power cars is a big jump. There is a large list of benefits associated with biofuel, the most striking being that it could potentially be carbon neutral, as plants absorb carbon dioxide from the atmosphere before they are harvested. Fuel supplies will never run out as we are growing the means to produce it ourselves. Cheap production costs and the abundance of farmed fuel will mean that biodiesel prices will be low. Industrial and household waste products can be utilised in the same way and converted into

biofuel. It seems like a simple, obvious solution, but it is not.

from their homes and their livelihoods destroyed.

Recycling waste products to turn them into biofuel is fantastic, however waste products alone are not enough to provide power for the planet. More is needed than what is obtainable from waste. A need for more vegetable oil means a need for more vegetation. The problem is that this means more land is required for farming.

In developing countries, where food is already in short supply, using land for purposes other than agriculture is just not feasible. In many developed countries land is in such high demand that it would mean switching farmland from food production to fuel.

40% of the earth’s land is currently used for agriculture. The global population is set to rise from 6 billion to 9 billion by 2050. Very soon we will need a lot more land, very quickly. And when we set out to find this land, only to discover that it is covered with fuel crops, what are we going to do? Claim more land. And then more. And then more and more and more and more. As we gradually invade every bit of potential farmland, replacing natural habitats with mono-cultural crop plantations, we will inadvertently obliterate biodiversity. Recently massive deforestation has been seen in Indonesia to make way for biodiesel cultivation. Endangered orangutan’s limited range has been reduced, people have been moved

There is just not enough space to grow plants for fuel as well as food. It is not a sustainable source of power. You might think that the world is a pretty big place, but if you try to picture the amount of farmland needed to feed 9 billion hungry humans, suddenly, Earth looks a little confined. What about climate change? By burning fossil fuels you are releasing carbon that has been stored for years underground. Biofuel is meant to help reduce CO 2 emissions as the plants, before combustion, take up CO 2 from the atmosphere. One dubious corporate internet site claims that up to a 60% reduction in CO2 emissions is achievable by switching to biodiesel. And in principal it could be. There is also evidence to suggest

that in practice, however, after production, processing and distribution it could lead to more pollution. Either way it is beside the point. Burning fuel releases carbon dioxide and will only increase atmospheric CO2 levels further, meaning more global warming. And if you are relying on plants for your fuel you’re going to be really buggered when all your fields dry out. Not to mention peckish. The only way to combat climate change is to cut out CO 2 emissions completely- to develop sustainable fuels that do not give off carbon dioxide. Solar panels are a more efficient use of land, however they are expensive. There are many sustainable energy sources that really warrant research and investment. Hydrogen fuel cells, electricity from wind farms, hydroelectric power, tidal power and (debatably) nuclear power all offer viable solutions to the question in hand. An investment in fuels that do not emit greenhouse gases is an investment in our future. Wasting time and energy with farfetched, short-sighted schemes such as biodiesel is negligent.

XXXXVIII

XXXXIX The 21st Century’s Most Ridiculous Daydream: Biodiesel Tom Collins

biofuel. It seems like a simple, obvious solution, but it is not.

from their homes and their livelihoods destroyed.

XXXXX

XXXXXI The Cheating Gene

UNCLE WETLEGS

Emma Russell No man would drive a Fiesta if he had a Ferrari in the garage, would he? No man would play on Sega if he had a Playstation 3 would he? And no man would sleep with miss average if he’d got Cheryl Cole waiting for him at home, would he? Yes actually he would. Confused? Me too.

Fed up with your miserable ramblings, Uncle Wetlegs will not be dispensing any advice this issue. “What a miserable bunch of bastards. Now they’ll pay…” Jesus Christ, I’m glad the Olympics are over. I’m so fed up, even now, of hearing about the same thing every fucking day. “Britain wins more medals over the weekend.” Great. Its been going on for weeks. Months. I can’t remember what it’s like without them. And, thinking back, was it really that great? Usain Bolt is pretty much all that comes to mind. And was it just me or was it all horribly tacky? 40 billion pounds? On what? A load of fire works? And why was all the music so rubbish? Why was Jackie Chan singing some Godawful Chinese pop song at the closing

Do you have any problems? Let Uncle Wetlegs know: www.replicamag.co.uk/index _unclewetlegs.htm Go on, entertain him.

ceremony? The Beijing soundtrack just didn’t compare to Barcelona’s. They didn’t stand a chance. David Beckham, umbrellas and a doubledecker bus. God, it makes you proud to be British. And as for the Bird’s Nest... I’d give it six months before it’s a dilapidated dumping ground or being is used by a Chinese drug baron to pimp out whores in his crack-den under the memory tower. Unite the world by trying to prove that you’re better than everyone else? I don’t understand. People seem to think that competition unites competitors, I sort of see what they are getting at- it gets different nations in the same place at the same time- but there must something more unifying. Rivalry just doesn’t make me feel that close to someone. What about fighting aliens, or asteroids? That always seems to work.

When Ashley Cole was exposed for having it off with the below average looking hairdresser (with bad roots) not only did it shatter Cheryl’s world, it shattered the little bit of hope us average looking girls had in men. If the sexist women on the earth can’t stop her man from cheating then what hope is there for us ‘normal’ girls? The same with Mr. Beckham, don’t get me wrong Rebecca Loose is above average looking, but she’s no Victoria is she? So what do you think it is that makes a man want to drive a Fiesta when he’s got a Ferrari a home? Is it greed, boredom, curiosity or are some men just born that way, with a cheating gene? I like to think it’s the latter. It is the only rational explanation, why would any man be bored with the most beautiful women in the world? And surely it’s not greed; Mr. Cole has the woman every man wants, he couldn’t want more. I myself have been a victim of this bizarre behaviour. Now I’m no oil painting but I would say I fall into the average looking category. So when my ex cheated on me with a chubbier, shorter, uglier version of

me I was knocked for six. Not because he’d cheated on me (I saw that coming) but because she wasn’t the tall, skinny blonde I’d envisioned. You always presume that if your man was to cheat it would be with some super hottie who was everything you weren’t. And honestly I would have understood if it had been the blonde, at least he would have been trading me for something better. This is why I have come to the conclusion that the actions of Mr. Cole, Mr. Beckham and my ex are totally irrational. There is no explanation for their behavior. It doesn’t matter if you’re Miss Average or Miss World if he’s got the cheating gene unfortunately I don’t think there’s a lot you can do about it.

XXXXX

XXXXXI The Cheating Gene

UNCLE WETLEGS

Do you have any problems? Let Uncle Wetlegs know: www.replicamag.co.uk/index _unclewetlegs.htm Go on, entertain him.

XXXXXII How do you define free-will? And when you do, does it really add up? Anon Instinct [in-stingkt] Noun An innate pattern of activity or tendency to action common to a given species. Learn [lurn] Noun To gain (habit, mannerism etc.) by experience or exposure to example. Reaction [ree-ak-shuhn] Noun (Physiology) Action of an organism in response to a stimulus; induced by a chemical or nervous signal. Reactions can be instinctive, learned or a combination of the two. Behaviour [bi-heyv-yer] Noun The aggregate of the responses or reactions made by an organism in a given situation. Personality [pur-suh-nal-i-tee] Noun The sum of behavioural qualities and traits attributed to an organism. Instinct and experience dictate your reactions to events, situations and circumstances. Behaviour, which defines personality, can be viewed as the combined sum of reactions of an individual. Is it really as simple as that? Are we just complicated machines

whose decisions and responses, with enough cognitive power, could be calculated and predicted? My answer? You work it out.

THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO CONTRIBUTED TO THIS ISSUE.

whose decisions and responses, with enough cognitive power, could be calculated and predicted? My answer? You work it out.

THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO CONTRIBUTED TO THIS ISSUE.

End.